


Grotesque

by leiascully



Series: The FBI's Most Unwanted [74]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Demonic Possession, Episode Related, Gen, X-Files OctoberFicFest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22125043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: She would see gargoyles in her dreams for a few weeks, wake up gasping with the sheet caught over her mouth as she tried to scrape imaginary clay from her face.
Series: The FBI's Most Unwanted [74]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/249118
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Grotesque

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: 3.14 "Grotesque"  
> A/N: For the Inktober prompt "coat".

There was clay on Mulder’s coat, ground into the fabric. Scully felt as if there was clay ground into her soul. She wasn’t sure the horror of it all would ever come out. It wasn’t as if she ever got over most of their cases, but somewere worse than others. This would leave an indelible stain on their psyches. She would see gargoyles in her dreams for a few weeks, wake up gasping with the sheet caught over her mouth as she tried to scrape imaginary clay from her face. And Mulder - there were new shadows in his eyes, like woods at twilight, the familiar rendered haunting. 

Sometimes she wondered if everyone Mulder had worked with before he discovered the X-Files had had some seed inside them waiting to blossom into something deadly. Maybe working with Mulder gave them a peculiar susceptibility to the eerie. She hadn’t entirely escaped herself, but she seemed to be inoculated against the worst of it. Proximilty to Mulder as preventative - it was a novel idea, but then he bore the brunt of whatever contagion of evil permeated the latest case. Some part of her felt for Patterson and some part of her scorned him. Despite the tings she’d gone through, she’d never murdered anyone in cold blood. She’d never let a spirit control her like a marionette, guiding her hands to slice and maim.

Mulder was sitting with his head in his hands. Atlas, bowed under the weight of the world. His hair was mussed. Her heart clutched at the sight of him, some mixture of instincts romantic and maternal.

“Mulder,” she said gently.

His voice was a weary rasp. “I’m fine, Scully.”

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to go to the Vietnamese place after we finish up here,” she said. “I’m in the mood for a bowl of soup as big as my head.”

“Who am I to deny you if you want to eat a truly irrational amount of pho?” he asked. She could tell his heart wasn’t in it when it came to their usual banter but the fact that he was making an effort was enough. It was grim, perhaps, to make plans as if people weren’t dead or suffering, but they spent their lives writing obituaries. Gallows conversationw was all they knew. They’d both feel better with something warm in their bellies.


End file.
